


There's No Escape From 20 Questions--Steam Heat

by jdrush



Series: 20 Questions [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dialog-only, Humour, M/M, bad case name puns, boykisses FTW, with minor stage directions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 05:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20040775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: It's for a case, John.  Famous last words.  A semi-sequel to my 20 Questions story, “Deep Freeze”.





	There's No Escape From 20 Questions--Steam Heat

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: There's No Escape From 20 Questions--Steam Heat  
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush  
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC1  
PAIRING: Sherlock/John all the time  
RATING: PG-13, for sexy times and boykisses, and one naughty word. (John's got such a potty-mouth). A semi-sequel to my 20 Questions story, “Deep Freeze”.  
SUMMARY: It's for a case, John. Famous last words.  
DISCLAIMER: These lovely lads belong to Sir ACD, BBC1, and Lords Moffat and Gatiss.  
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Thank you Goddess for all the great suggestions that helped me finally finish this story after my muse buggered off for parts unknown. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES 2: I'm slowly. . .so slowly. . .uploading old stories to the archive. This was originally posted to my livejournal in October, 2012.

“Sherlock, what are we doing here?”

“It’s for a case.”

“I know that.”

“And yet you still asked. How dull of you.”

“I just meant. . .well. . .I don't have any pants on.”

“So. . .no one does.”

“But. . .”

*eye roll* “As I explained last night, John, based on evidence left at the latest crime scene, I have deduced that our suspect is partial to Turkish baths.”

“Right. Got that.”

“Consequently, to catch him, it only makes sense to stake-out locations he’s bound to frequent.”

“How do you know it’ll be THIS Turkish bath, though?”

“I don’t.”

“Then I ask again-- why are we here?”

“We have to start SOMEWHERE.”

“I think it would have made more sense to just rent a cat.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because he’s a cat burglar.”

“John, he’s a thief. . .”

“Yes, who steals prize-winning show cats.”

“That doesn’t make him a cat burglar.”

“It does in my book.”

“Fantastic. I can already see the title of the blog entry: ‘Curiosity Caught the Cat Burglar’.”

“Actually I hadn’t come up with a title, but that one’s pretty good. I might nick it if you don’t mind.”

*waves disinterested hand* “Be my guest.”

“Ta.” *fans self * “Lord, it’s hot in here.”

“I believe that’s the point.”

“I get that but. . .phew. There’s hot, and then there’s this.”

“We’ll give it another hour.”

“He might not show up.”

“Then we try a different one.”

“Right.” *pause* “Sherlock, just exactly how many Turkish baths are you going to drag me to?”

“As many as we need.”

“Okay. Not really an answer. Let’s try this. . .if you had an afternoon free and decided to spend it exploring all the Turkish baths in London, how many places would you need to visit?” 

*mumbles* “Four.”

“Well, okay, I suppose that’s not so bad. . .”

“And seven more scattered through the rest of the country.”

“Rest of the. . .”

“And three in Scotland, although one of those is undergoing renovations, so we don’t have to bother with it. I suppose we should be thankful our suspect wasn’t around 150 years ago. There were about 600 of these baths back then. Would have taken us ages to investigate them all.”

*shakes head emphatically* “No, absolutely not. I refuse to be dragged to fourteen. . .”

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen different Turkish Baths.” 

“Why not?”

“Because I’m sitting here, in a roomful of strangers, wearing only a towel, that’s why not.”

“Technically, it’s a bath sheet.”

“Sheet, towel. . .whatever.”

“Every other man in here is clad the same.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“It’s not any less than you’ve worn around the flat.”

“Yes, but there it’s just us. I don’t have an audience.”

“I fail to see the difference.”

“Then I’ll spell it out for you. I don’t particularly enjoy flashing the crown jewels to every Tom, Dick or Nigel in the greater London area, thank you very much.”

“You’re not flashing the crown jewels, as you so colourfully put it.”

“Close enough.”

“And it’s not EVERY Tom, Dick or Nigel. I happen to know for a fact that Sergeant Tom Davidson is on a case in Brixton at this moment.”

“You are such a twat, Sherlock.”

“Frankly, I don’t understand your objections, John. Take it from me, you have nothing to be ashamed of in the crown jewels department.”

*several heads turn and look at John; John turns seven shades of red and glances at his feet*

“I never said I was ashamed. And, um, thank you. I think.”

*smirk* “No, thank you.” 

*a couple of men steal furtive glances at John’s crotch; John glares at them*

“All flattery aside, I’m still not happy about this whole situation.”

“If it makes you feel better, the sheet covers everything, I promise.” 

“Which brings up another point--if our cat burglar does show up, how exactly are we supposed to apprehend him wearing just a sheet?”

“Carefully.”

“You are absolutely useless, Sherlock.”

“You’ve been in an awfully stroppy mood all day, John.”

“Maybe because I’m hot.”

“Well, we ARE in the hot room.”

“Yes, I noticed. I’m not completely clueless.” *glare* “Not a word.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure you were.” *fans self* “Bugger, it’s stifling in here. I can't see how anyone would find this enjoyable.”

“They must be doing SOMETHING right--these types of baths have existed in one form or another for thousands of years.”

“Which just proves there’s no accounting for taste.”

“It’s always something with you, isn’t it?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

*sarcastic whining* “I’m too hot. I’m too cold. Why must you keep the tin of parasitic night crawlers next to the pudding cups? Honestly, John, there’s no pleasing you.”

*more heads turn to stare; John ignores them this time*

“We were locked in a fucking meat locker, you stupid clot! Of COURSE I was cold! And why DO you have to keep the tin of parasitic night crawlers next to the pudding cups?”

“Alphabetical order.”

“I swear to God, I’m going to kill Mike in his sleep for introducing me to you.”

*huffs* “Fine.” *grabs John’s hand and pulls him up* “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Cooling off room.”

“I’m NOT a child, Sherlock. I don’t need a ‘time out’.”

*glances at ceiling; does patented ‘I am completely surrounded by idiots’ look * “It’s a room with a more. . .agreeable. . .temperature.”

“Well, you should have said. Lead the way.”

**************************

15 minutes later. . .

* John is stretched out, face down on a cushion-laden marble table; Sherlock stands above him, giving him a skilled massage*

*deep contented sigh* “Now THIS is more like it. I’m starting to see the appeal of this place, Sherlock.”

*looks down at expanse of John’s toned, tanned, oiled back; moans softly* “Indeed.”

“I was a bit disappointed when you shooed away the masseurs, but I must say--you’re quite good at this.”

“Thank you. I knew these skills would come in handy again someday.”

“You trained in this?”

“It was for a case.”

“Of course. You know, speaking of cases, you never told me exactly how we’re supposed to identify our thief, considering we have no idea what he looks like.”

“By his tattoo.”

“What tattoo?”

“The tattoo on his right shoulder.”

“Sherlock--we don’t even know who this man is. There’s never been an eyewitness. How can you POSSIBLY know that he has a tattoo on his. . .?” *pauses, rolls eyes* “Oh, right. I forgot who I was talking to.”

“Found a business card for a local tattoo parlour at the last crime scene, and I highly doubt it belonged to the cat’s owner, Lord Butterfinger.”

“I thought it was Butterfield.” 

“You’ve never seen him play croquet.”

“So let me get this straight. Your entire plan is to scout out Turkish baths until you find someone sporting some new ink. Well played.”

*exasperated huff* “NO. I also plan on going through the locker rooms. Persian kittens, such as those owned by Lord Buttercup. . .”

“Butterflield.”

“. . .shed everywhere. Therefore, the math is elementary: clothing plus excessive fur equals kitty-snatcher.”

*rolls onto back, glances up with awed expression* “Brilliant.”

*preens happily* “I know.”

*one tanned hand slides smoothly along Sherlock’s knotted bath sheet; naughty smile slides across handsome face* “I think I’m plenty relaxed now, love. Perhaps I can return the favour.”

*gracefully climbs onto table, crawling on all fours and straddles John; lustful gleam in eye* “That, my dear doctor, sounds like an excellent idea.”

*leans down for a long, lazy, languid kiss* 

“We do realize we’re in the middle of a case, Sherlock.”

“Point taken under advisement.”

*another deep, passionate, sinful kiss*

“Just thought I’d mention it.”

“So considerate of you.”

*hungry mouths devour each other greedily; nimble fingers loosen the knot holding Sherlock’s bath sheet close; sure, sturdy doctor’s hands glide knowingly along creamy white skin; slender hips undulate, pressing and caressing heated flesh together; uninhibited moans fill the air. . .*

*throat clearing* “I see you’re having trouble keeping your sheet on again, brother-mine. You really should be more careful.”

*indignantly grabs at bath sheet; covers up exposed naked bits* “Mycroft, you meddlesome tit! What the hell are you doing here?”

*Mycroft, standing at ease in the doorway, designer bath sheet expertly draped around him in a casual--but stylish--toga* “Gregory suggested it. It’s been such a trying day and I was desperately in need of some ‘me’ time.”

*rolls over and off John; sits on edge of marble table, flushed with embarrassment and sexual frustration* “Of course. I can only imagine what the trouble could be. European Union banking crisis, perhaps. Or some pesky Tunisian foreign nationals infiltrating Buckingham Palace. Dear me, I hope it’s not a shortage of éclairs! Oh, the humanity!”

*long-suffering sigh* “Someone tried to abduct Lady Fluffington, if you must know.”

“Lady Fluff. . .?”

“His pet cat, John.”

“She’s not just a ‘cat’, Sherlock, and far from being a ‘pet’. She’s a world-class, award-winning pedigree Russian Blue, a seventh generation direct descendent of the legendary Mistress Loveykins, though heaven knows if she’ll ever compete again after this morning‘s ordeal. Poor dear is a complete wreck. She’s even off her caviar.”

*excitedly* “Sherlock! Do you know what this means? If she’s a show cat, then. . .”

*disgusted groan* “Yes, John. I know. It appears our thief is already in custody at the Yard.”

“Actually, he was delivered to Bart’s A & E. Gregory didn’t take too kindly to seeing our precious darling girl boxed up in that horrid tacky kitty-carrier, I’m afraid. But then again, its only what one would expect from Lord Butterfly.”

“You mean Butterbean.”

“It’s Butterfield, Sherlock. But you’ve got that all wrong, Mycroft. His lordship was one of the cat burglar’s victims.”

*raised eyebrow* “Did he just say ‘cat burglar’?”

*resigned sigh* “I’ve tried, Myrcroft. You have no idea.”

“I dread the blog entry on this one.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Boys! We were talking about Lord Butterfield and his connection to the cat-napper.”

“That’s even worse, John.”

“Actually, there was no connection, Doctor. Butterball is your thief.”

“Butterknife.”

“ButterFIELD, you two berks! Or. . .oh. . .you’re doing that on purpose.” *the Holmes brothers look at each other and smirk* “God, I hate you both.”

“Forgive my good-natured joshing, John, but it’s really quite simple. You see, Wilbur Butterfield and his woefully. . .*derisive sniff* . . . pedestrian felines have a long history of placing out of ribbon contention at the most prestigious cat shows. It would seem he decided the only way he could finally win was to eliminate the competition--the lovely Lady Fluffington included.”

“But his Persian kittens. . .”

“Are safe and well. He stashed them, along with the other cats, at his sister’s estate while she’s vacationing in Brisbane. They’re being returned to their owners as we speak. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe there’s a massage table with my name on it. Jean-Luc, tout de suite, s’il vous plait.”

*walks over to a marble massage table and lays down; there‘s a small gold plaque embedding in the stone that says ‘Property of Mycroft Holmes’; a handsome blond-haired, blue-eyed masseur joins him*

“Well, that’s that then. Another case solved.” *stands up* “I’ll be in the showers, John.”

*grabs right hand* “Oh no you don’t. There’s still the question of the tattoo. The one you said would be on the thief’s right shoulder.” 

“I don’t recall saying that.”

“Yes, you did. You said you found a business card for a tattoo parlour which belonged to the thief.”

“I said no such thing. You must’ve heard wrong. Getting old. Your hearing is going. You should probably have that checked out. You’re a doctor--you should know these things. Ah, look at the time.” *glances at bare left wrist* “Must get to the morgue before Molly tosses out those radioactive thyroid glands she’s been hoarding.” *pulls hand from John’s grasp* “You might want to stay at Harry’s tonight. Lots of radiation and. . .and. . . stuff. Very dangerous. Not the good kind of dangerous. Maybe tomorrow night, too. I’ll see you next week.” *dashes from the room*

*snickering* “Can’t WAIT to write this one up. ‘The Case of the Bungling Cat-Burglar’. ‘For Want of a Blue Ribbon’. ‘Four Paws and a Court Date’.”

*from side of room* “ ‘Claws for an Arrest’.”

*glances over with awed expression* “Mycroft! You’re a genius!”

*smug sigh* “I know.”

THE END


End file.
